Untrustworthy
by misscam
Summary: You can't trust humans. Leave you lot alone for only a little time and you've gone and aged and maybe even died. [TenRose]


ØUntrustworthy  
by Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: BBC's characters. My words.

Summary: _You can't trust humans. Leave you lot alone for only a little time and you've gone and aged and maybe even died. _Ten/Rose

Rating: Teen. Implied naughtiness.

Author's Note: Pinch-hit for Ponygirl's Summer Solstice Fic Exchange. For venefican, who wanted: "Hurt/comfort - set after 'The Girl in the Fireplace'. Ten/Rose (but of course) - fluffy ending, please! And possibly Rose without the irrational green-eyed monster that has attached itself to her." I might only have managed 'not too angsty' on the ending there, sorry.  
Prompt 048 for 50lyricsfanfic (we're made out of blood and rust; Looking for someone to trust, without a fight).  
Thanks to Saz for beta.

II

Of all the emotions Rose Tyler is experiencing walking through the TARDIS, Mickey by her side and the Doctor so far from her, there's one strangely missing

"I'm not jealous," she tells Mickey, and even if he doesn't seem to believe it, she knows it's true. She's not jealous. Perhaps it would be easier if she was. There were ways to get even and feel empowered sparking jealousy right back, even if using Mickey that way isn't what he deserves at all. But just having the option and choosing not to take it would be something.

Rose wishes she was jealous. Jealousy is easier than hurt.

He left her. Oh, she understands why. She would not travel with him as she does if he was the kind to stand by and watch someone die just like that when there was something he could do. She knows he's got a million precautions to get her home if he's not there to do it. She knows he never made her any promises of forever. She knows he loves humans in general and maybe her in particular, but that he'll do what he has to do. And she knows what he feels for her won't exclude what he feels for anything else. 

That's not the problem. The problem is what she can't have. 

He left her - turned his mind to someone else and she feels left out in the cold. He shared something with someone that isn't her, and she doesn't even know what. She could feel the shape of it in the Doctor's silence after, before Mickey lured her away.

The Doctor's been hurt. All the roar in him lulled for a moment, and he isn't sharing it. He hasn't trusted her with it. He's left her.

It hurts.

"This place is like a freaky never-ending attic," Mickey remarks, almost tripping over a stack of books and dragging her with. "Does he never clean in here?"

She tries to imagine the Doctor on his hands and knees scrubbing away and finds the image silly enough to start laughing. Mickey joins her after a moment, and it reminds her a bit of old days, even if they're in an alien space ship the size of a castle (at least) and a police box at the same time.

Old days left behind.

"I have to go see he's okay," she says, and Mickey sighs as he lets go of her hand. "He's my friend."

"Friend," Mickey repeats tonelessly, but strangely without bitterness. "Go on, then."

She presses a kiss hurriedly against his cheek before she almost runs to leave him, trying not to feel guilty and failing miserably.

She knows what he feels being left behind.

She still doesn't look back.

II

The Doctor is leaning his hands on the console, the green light soft on his face and his expression so carefully blank it hurts to look at. He can probably hear her enter, but makes no reaction to indicate he does. She hesitates for a moment, fighting a desire to run back to Mickey. That would just be cowardly, and far, far too late.

She's not sure what to say at all, but what comes out of her mouth is certainly not a subtle approach. "What did you lose?"

He tenses visibly, but his voice is perfectly calm. "What makes you think I've lost anything?"

"You look like Mickey when England's lost," she replies, the first thing that pops to mind.

"He's going to ask to be taken to 1966, then?" the Doctor replies glibly, ever a star in the game of avoidance. It makes her want to cheat in retaliation.

"I'll make sure he doesn't if you tell me what's wrong," she counters, moving forward. He closes his eyes and she has a strange urge to touch his eyelids and ease away whatever images is troubling him so. "You saved her, didn't you? Saved them all?"

"I saved them," he says softly. "I saved her. Then she died."

"I'm sorry she died," she manages, and any other guy would probably distrust that and don't think her sorry at all, but the Doctor just nods, accepting. "Was it...?"

"Natural causes," the Doctor says, and now he does sound bitter. "Decay. Rust."

"Oh. Did you..." No. She can't ask that, doesn't dare ask that, doesn't trust the answer enough. "Did she suffer?"

"Only hope."

Still that calm voice, and she wants to shake him to rage instead, or cry, or do something that would at least make her feel a part of him was even with her right now. This is just ice, and she feels cold.

And then he sighs, and she wraps her arms around him without even thinking, and he lets her. Mind far away, but at least his body is here, and she rests a hand on his neck as he burrows his face into her shoulder. The height difference forces her to tip-toe to reach, but she doesn't dare move for fear he'll pull away.

His breath is warm, sneaking through cloth to brush against her skin. Steady breaths, calm even there. He's not crying, she thinks, at least not so that she can tell.

She would cry over Mickey. Over the Doctor too, but she wonders sometimes if he can cry at all. Perhaps he wouldn't know when to stop.

He finally pulls back, and looks at her, eyes a little dark and skin pale.

"Rose," he says, and she's not sure if it's an acknowledgement or thanks or question or what. He touches her temple with two fingers ever so briefly, feather-like, then lowers his hands, gone from her again. "Better find Mickey before he gets lost in the swamp."

"Yeah," she agrees, and decides not to push further right now. This isn't letting him go. This is a tactical retreat to better plan a surprise initiative.

Or in other words, running away until some desperate idea occurs itself, a Doctor speciality.

Sometimes, he really does rub off too much on her, she thinks.

II

Initiatives are a lot more easy when they come to you, Rose discovers, waking up in the middle of the night by the Doctor walking in and dropping himself into a chair. He lookes bored or desolate, it's hard to tell. She tries very hard not to be annoyed, because the Doctor does have different ideas about boundaries and the appropriateness of knocking.

"You can't trust humans," he announces, and flips his feet up on her bed. She feels grateful she doesn't sleep naked and doesn't have to hastily cover herself with the covers, and can just sit up instead.

"You can't trust us?" she asks, wondering what the hell he's on about.

"That's right!" he says, dragging a hand through his hair and scratching his scalp slightly. "Untrustworthy buggers."

"Thanks," she replies sarcastically.

"You're welcome," he says earnestly, and she shakes her head at him. "Leave you lot alone for only a little time and you've gone and aged and maybe even died."

"That's what times does," she protests, and he shakes his head.

"Not to me. You, you let time have its way with you."

"And you have your way with time?"

She realises a second too late how it might sound, and he laughs a little, even if it's not completely sincere. "I always have my way, Rose. I'm the way-haver. Official title, I'll have you know."

"You haven't with me so far," she says carelessly, because he's in her room, and she wants to get him a little off-balance as he has her. It feels more even that way.

His tongue pauses on the way to his lips, and she can see the slight moisture of his mouth on it and feels an itching desire to lick it away. His eyes widen a little, but he makes no other reaction.

"I took you along. That's my way," he says carefully.

"Would you have brought her along?" she presses and he looks irritable.

"Her name's Reinette, Rose."

He says the name so softly it is the answer to a question she decided not to ask, but she refuses to feel jealousy, and feels instead his pain and the gentle way he says her name too. 

She edges out of bed carefully, feeling a bit conscious that her shirt only reaches to a little down her thighs, but determined to forge ahead regardless. He just looks at her as she stands up next to him, tilting her head down to meet his gaze.

"Untrustworthy bugger, me then. What about you? Can I trust you?"

"Trust me for what?" he says, voice almost dangerous. "To bend to your will, your desires, your image? No. To keep you alive with everything I have and can do? Oh yes."

"I don't want that trust," she says simply. "I just want to trust my friend to be my friend. I want my friend to trust me and let me comfort him."

His mind might not be hers to reach right now, but his body is.

She still his head with a hand on either side, and he blinks a little before she leans down and presses her lips against his. Just pressure at first, familiarising herself with the texture of his lips. He parts his lips enough that she can feel the tip of his tongue too and his breath is warm and only slightly unsteady.

"You don't have to do this, Rose," he whispers. He probably means it, and tomorrow he'll be back to being her Doctor right enough, but she needs a comfort as well, needs to feel at least a part of him is hers too.

"I want to. I did this for Mickey when England lost."

He makes a slight snorting noise she kills by tugging at his bottom lip and luring his tongue into her mouth. He follows eagerly enough, tracing the hardness of her teeth and softness of flesh just as eagerly. Her back aches from the strained position she's in, so she eases down on his lap and feels her shirt curl up to her hips as a result. He takes the opportunity to put a hand on naked skin, very carefully at first, more impatiently as she presses herself against him and probably giving him a good impression she's wearing no bra.

She moves her mouth to his neck, kissing his pulse softly, moving further to his ear, nibbling softly on his earlobe. He smells slightly of apples there, and she wonders what an apple would be doing near his ear and decides it's a question better asked later. He would probably answer it now, with full details, and she's very much enjoying what his mouth is currently occupied with, namely pressing itself against her right breast through the thin cloth of her shirt.

He steadies her when she lets her head fall back slightly, and he looks so serious she wonders if it's what he hides behind his laughs these days.

"This isn't a lost football match. I'm not Mickey, and you're not that Rose anymore."

"This is the only comfort you'll let me give. You're the Doctor and I'm this Rose," she answers, and he lifts her up and pins her against the wall with a force that feels almost violent.

"You don't want to comfort me," he says harshly, burning in his voice. She has no chance to protest as he kisses her hard, his fingers finding the elastic of her knickers and tearing them off without much ceremony. She squirms slightly as his fingers ease into her and whimpers when he bends down to let his tongue explore too. It's warm and tickling and torture all at once, and she thumps her head back against the wall several times until she feels almost mad and yanks at his hair. 

She barely hears the sound of a zipper, but she does feel his thrust into her, hard and unrelenting and not gentle at all. She can feel anger and grief in him, and he's almost savage in his pace until he opens his eyes and look at her, pupils dilated and eyelids slightly lowered.

"Rose," he says in a strange tone she doesn't recognise. "Oh, Rose."

She comes with a shudder, and he stills her gently, kissing her until she feels attached to his body again and he's still inside her, hard and slightly trembling with effort. She can see a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his breath is ragged.

"You okay?" he asks, voice strangled.

"Yes. You?"

"Not as much," he replies. "Rose, I... Oh, fuck."

He looks downright silly in the grip of an orgasm, she thinks, and loves him a little for it.

II

He's still sitting in the chair, feet on her bed when she wakes, and a moment she wonders if she has dreamed certain things, but sore limbs and skin tells her she hasn't really. She wonders if he's slept, but thinks not, and wonders if she'll ever manage to get him out of that suit given that he even seems to shag in it.

She might have to try harder to find out. 

"You can't trust Time Lords," he announces, and she smiles a little. "Untrustworthy buggers."

"Yeah?"

"Trust me on it."

"I do," she promises, and he smiles a little at her. "You all right?"

"I'm always all right," he says, and perhaps this time he means it. Maybe he'll be all right after her too, and maybe she will be as well. But for today, she's glad she doesn't have to find out.

"Let's find Mickey and impress him with our time travelling skills," he suggests, and she nods eagerly. Always moving on, her Doctor, but this time he's moved back to her. Left, and came back. That's good enough.

It has to be.

"Can we do that thing where the TARDIS does a loop?" she asks eagerly, jumping out of bed and somehow not minding he's there as she gets dressed.

"It's not a loop, Rose, it's crossing the yesterday-tomorrow paradox by... Oh, nevermind, close enough. Yes, we can do a loop."

"Hold my hand for it?"

"Always."

They head out, hand in hand, and she doesn't look back. She never does anymore.

He's taught her that's best, and she trusts him.

Always.

FIN


End file.
